Naughtily
If only I could never be there enough. If only I could never implement factual reflections. I could never suck on the irrefragable susurration. I could never be a dead-on butt stain. If only I could naughtily be a piece of anything. If only I could be a hollow wire with a blue spectral line streaming alongside it. If only I could perforate a radiantly anticlimactic seedpod I could then be a fleshy rhizome, or the configuration of a dumbbell. But I could never permeate the admixture of purity and impurity. If only I could rescind the saponaceous static of whiteness. If only I could be a discolored isotope. If only I could be tainted with the withering fission of knowing I could lash and flail about seared disseminations, then I could collide with the pitch of this very singed tone. If only nothing were salvageable. If only my mesmerized precision wasn't decaying. If only I wasn't entranced by the aerial, the indigenous wouldn't be spellbinding. If only I could catalyze what is hardly ductile, I could then excoriate the oblong beams in your faceless name. --Bob BrueckL
